L’Opéra Populaire
by The Marvelous Mad Madam Mim
Summary: The story of a monster who wishes to be a man, a man who's really a monster, a girl who's still a child, a girl who never was a child, a woman who wishes to be loved, a woman who spurns love, and a shadow in the corner that fills them all with fear.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

**Lies and Half-Truths**

I read the book and I am slightly disgusted. Leroux has lied to me, to all of Paris, to the world! He promised to tell our story, as best it could be told, and yet he has edited and revised, added and subtracted as he saw fit. That will not do. Not one bit.

And so it falls to me to right this record, as it really happened. The roles of Raoul and Christine are, for the most part, correct. But Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin are way off; Carlotta, Carolus, and Sorelli received no justice. And my dear sweet mother--well, her story is not even told.

I sit back and try to remember it all--the gossip, the squalor, the fear and the passion. All the world saw was the grandeur of it all. But how grand is obsession? How breath-taking is ill-fated love? And who envies unrequited passion?

It does not tell of the days spent in darkness, the long tedious hours of hard labor to produce one hour's worth of entertainment, painted with bright colors and covered in spangles, to be offered to the Parisian aristocracy like a delicious gumdrop. It does not tell what really happened to any of us--not I, not Christine, not Raoul nor Erik nor Carlotta.

No, it is all wrong. Gaston, oh Gaston, how could you betray us? The world will only believe what they read, they will not search for truth. How will they know it is a lie, a half-truth? The only ones left to remember are the Persian and I. The Persian is now half-mad, his memory fails. So the burden is mine and mine alone. The truth needs to be told, but truth is such a burden at times. It is so much easier to pretend that such things did not happen; that such people did not exist. I have no choice. As much as I hate to relive the memories, I must correct the stain that Leroux has set.

This is the story of a monster who wishes to be a man, a man who is really a monster, a girl who is still a child, a girl who never was a child, a woman who wishes to be loved, a woman who spurns love, and a shadow in the corner that fills them all with fear.

This is the true account of the Opera Populaire.


	2. Pappa's Promise

**Pappa's Promise**

"Christine sounds like a screech owl!" Little Meg Giry squealed with delight, holding her sides with laughter. The other little ballerinas giggled in agreement, and poor Christine's brown eyes brimmed with tears.

Mother Giry appeared in the courtyard, in a whirl of skirts and taffeta. A quick smack across the back of Meg's head silenced the laughter, and Giry shooed the girls away, "Back inside, My little imps. Back to your lessons."

Only Christine remained, her watery eyes downcast. She dug her toe in the dirt and said, in a tiny voice, "It's true. I do sound like a screech owl."

Giry felt a wave of compassion for the newly-orphaned child. She cupped the little girl's chin in her hand, "Look at me, Christine--and stop playing in the dirt, you'll get your ballet slippers dirty."

Christine looked down at her once-pink satin shoes. It was too late; they were already dirty and showing signs of wear. With a sigh, Mother Giry bent down to the seven-year-old's eye level, "Listen, Christine. The girls are jealous of you, that's all. Even Meg is envious. You must not let their silly words bother you.'

Suddenly, Christine looked directly into Giry's gentle eyes, "When will he come?"

"Who, darling?"

"The Angel of Music. Pappa promised he would come," Christine's little chin wavered. "But I haven't seen him yet."

Compassion flooded Giry's features. In a voice low and thick with emotion, she hugged the child close to her, "That's because you can't see angels, my little one. But I promise, he is here--just as your father said he would be. He is watching over you."

"Then why don't I hear him?"

"Because you don't listen," Giry tweaked the little girl's nose. "You are too busy asking questions. Now, run along, My little songbird."


	3. Return of the Ghost

**Return of the Ghost**

_Eight Years Later_

La Sorelli eyed herself suspiciously in the mirror, as if the reflection were some stranger. She placed another hair pin in the bun wrapped tightly around her head. As the principle dancer of the Opera Populaire, the greatest opera house in Paris, La Sorelli demanded perfection in everything—from her mastery of the choreography right down to the stray hairs in her face.

Her maid, Regine, was tying a blue silk sash around Sorelli's waist and dispelling the latest gossip, "And so Marguerite said that she knew Marcel wouldn't go back on his word, but I'm not so sure about that."

"Why would you say that?" Sorelli asked distractedly, still focused on her reflection. Regine gave a contemptuous snort, "Because, Madamoiselle, he is a man."

The right side of Sorelli's mouth curled into a sardonic smile. The silence was broken by some shouts and screams, followed by nervous chuckles of relief which echoed through the highly domed halls of the Opera. Regine hurried to the door and peered outside, trying to see what was the matter. She closed the door with a shake of her head.

Sorelli turned to the closed door with an agitated look, "What was that all about?"

"The ballet brats again," Regine rolled her eyes. "Jumpin' and screamin' at the slightest noise. They're all a-twitter. They have a right to be, I suppose."

"Why is that?" Sorelli asked nonchalantly, turning her attention back to her costume.

"Well, haven't you heard, ma'am?" Regine's voice became serious. "The Opera Ghost has returned."

Sorelli gave a pretty little laugh, her tone full of amusement, "Regine, darling, you can't be serious! The Opera Ghost hasn't walked these halls for at least ten years!"

"I am telling you, mademoiselle, it is true!" Regine's blue eyes were wide with her evident fear and whole-hearted belief. "Joseph Buquet saw the Ghost just last week!"

"Nonsense," La Sorelli dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand. She tucked away a few loose hairs, and added with a distracted air, "Giry says the Ghost doesn't show himself; he is just a voice."

"Perhaps there is more than one," Regine suggested. "Hundreds, maybe thousands, of bodies still lie in the cellars from the commune. Who's to say that there weren't a few fiends among them?"

Sorelli was silent as she contemplated her maid's remark. It had been many years since the Opera Ghost had plagued the opera house; Sorelli was still a young child training for the corps de ballet when the Ghost had last struck. One of the patrons had leapt from his box and fallen to his death. That same week, some props caught fire and the Opera had to be closed six months for repairs. Then, as if by a miracle, the Ghost disappeared.

"Anyways," Sorelli tucked a lily in her hair. "I don't believe in ghosts."

And then, being the most superstitious person in the whole of Paris, the ballerina quickly touched the talisman she kept wrapped around her neck for protection. As a child, she had grown up listening to the street gypsies' tales of the Evil Eye; she was quite certain that such a thing existed, and that it lived within the dark halls of the Opera Populaire.

Rather than dwell on these dark thoughts, Sorelli turned to her maid, her eyes twinkling mischievously, "Have you heard the latest on that little chorus brat?"

"Which one, madame?" Regine gave a wry grin. "There are so many."

"Oh, the Spanish one," Sorelli's brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to remember the name. "The one with the doe eyes who dances like a cow."

"Ah," Regine suddenly realized whom her mistress was referring to. "You mean Donita."

"Yes, that's the one," Sorelli nodded. "I overheard the little rats talking in the hall this afternoon. Apparently she is with child."

"And M'sier Artois de Lison is the father," Regine replied, kneeling to fix the calf-length hem on Sorelli's long tutu. The dancer turned slowly, looking at her servant in disbelief, "Artois de Lison?"

Regine nodded. Sorelli was stunned, "I didn't hear that!"

"That's because the chorus brats don't know." Regine couldn't help add with a smirk, "Yet."

"And how did you stumble upon this delectable bit of information?" Sorelli's features wore an amused smile. Regine never looked up from her work, "I'm not deaf, milady. And I do get around this place just fine without your help."

Sorelli laughed, "I'm sure you do. Here I am beaten at my own game! By my maid! Ah, well. What other news do you have for me, Regine?"

"Well, I hear that Remy is after another chorus girl--Cecile Jammes is the name, I think--"

"I'm not surprised," Sorelli grinned wryly at her reflection. She remembered a time when Remy had chased her as well—unsuccessfully. But soon she was too old for his tastes.

"And Carlotta received yet another set of pearls from DeLongrae, the jeweler. He wants her to wear them for tonight's performance."

"Whatever for?"

"In hopes that some wealthy aristocrat will see it and purchase it for his wife."

"They must be very large pearls, to be seen from the stage," Sorelli mused aloud. "Very large and gaudy."

"Perfect for La Carlotta," Regine stood, smiling smugly. Sorelli smiled in agreement. Then she quickly lost her smile and was all-business once again. She turned around with a determined air, "Come. I've two hours before I go on. I need to rehearse."

Regine just nodded and moved out of the way of her fast paced mistress. In truth, Sorelli did not need the practice, but to say so would invoke instant rebuke. Sorelli had a legendary temper, as most divas do—and Regine knew not to provoke it.


	4. Scars and Success

**Scars and Success**

After her rehearsal, La Sorelli returned to her dressing room. She dismissed Regine and began to add the finishing touches to her costume.

La Sorelli stood before her mirror, carefully applying color to her lips. She straightened her shoulders, smiled at herself in satisfaction, and pushed up her corset to show off her ample bosom. Tonight was the Opera Populaire's grand opening of _Faust_, and all of Paris had turned out to watch. And she was the main attraction.

Sorelli was the principle dancer of the Opera; her beauty and grace were unrivaled. Her quarters were always filled with flowers and amorous letters sent by adoring fans. Her newest lover was none other than Phillippe, Comte de Chagny, who had recently taken the Opera Populaire under his patronage. La Sorelli was no idiot--de Chagny would never marry below his rank in life. But for the time being she could enjoy his company and the many gifts he showered upon her. Long ago she had realized the full extent of her charms upon the upper-class populace, and although she had no illusions of becoming a duchess or comtess, Sorelli was content with being the mistress that the duke or comte kept in a lavishly furnished flat.

_But there will come a day when the men who would move heaven and earth for you now will walk past without a single glance_, her mind gently prodded.

The ballerina pushed her thoughts aside and did a few stretches to limber up her shapely legs. Then she turned to the mirror one last time, blew herself a kiss, and sailed out of the dressing room and down the narrow hall. Phillippe was waiting for her at the bottom of the staircase. He smiled at the sight of her; his face full of admiration. Sorelli returned the smile and lightly touched her cheek to his, kissing the air. She didn't want to smudge her lip rouge. Wordlessly, she shed the coarse over shoes she was wearing and slipped into her pink satin ballet shoes. Phillippe dutifully took the discarded shoes and wished her luck before returning to his seat in Box Seven.

Sorelli wove her way through the current of stagehands, corps de ballet, singers, and trainers. She heard the corps de ballet twitter when she flitted by; she smiled in satisfaction. The corps feared her wrath, adored her talent, and always took notice whenever she walked by. To Sorelli, they were annoying children, but to them, Sorelli was a goddess.

The other resident diva, La Carlotta, was already backstage, preparing for her grand entrance. The two exchanged dark looks, but neither spoke. Carlotta applied more perfume, spraying profusely around herself and causing Sorelli to cough and gag at the overpowering smell.

"Pardonne," Carlotta said haughtily, setting the perfume back in its velvet box. Sorelli swore under her breath, "They shall smell you from the boxes, as strong as that is!"

Carlotta eyed Sorelli distastefully, "I'm sure they will smell you as well. But in your case, it will not be a pleasant one."

Sorelli bristled at the barb, but luckily Gabriel, the chorus master, intervened, "La Carlotta, they're ready for you."

With a smirk of superiority, Carlotta sashayed out of the wings and onto the stage. She began on a beautiful note; her voice carrying strong and high.

Sorelli was still fuming. She whispered harshly to Gabriel, "She thinks she can say such things to me, just because I came from the streets! As if she's much better!"

Gabriel didn't comment. This was just part of the ongoing war between the divas; to get involved would not be wise. Both women were beautiful, talented, and adored by the public. But there is only so much room in the spotlight, and neither diva's ego was small enough to allow another to share the praise.

Carlotta finished her aria with a flourish and left the stage, holding out her hands in a grand gesture of gratitude to her audience.

"Bonne chance, little one," Carlotta whispered as she fluttered past Sorelli. Sorelli's face set in anger, but she quickly pasted on a smile as she made her way onto the stage. The audience applauded at the sight of her; Sorelli's chest filled with pride and emotion and every dark thought fled her mind. She danced her heart out, giving everything to her audience. At the end, her efforts were rewarded with a storm of flowers and shouts for encores and thunderous applause. To be truthful, Sorelli had intentionally packed the house with her most loyal supporters and fervent admirers. Carlotta, however, was unaware that the audience was filled with Sorelli's closest friends, and her face showed her utter dismay at this obvious triumph on Sorelli's part.

The prima ballerina curtsied once more and exited the stage. One of the corps followed behind her, arms laden with flowers. Sorelli smiled smugly at Carlotta. In her sweetest tone, she said, "Don't look so sullen, Carlotta! You did your best and so did I. But as usual, mine was better."

Having delivered her final blow for the evening, Sorelli hurried off to her dressing room, carefully taking off her slippers once she reached the threshold of the hall. She would not allow anything to ruin her ballet shoes.

Sorelli's dark eyes were wary as she tiptoed through the dimly-lit halls of the opera house. To add to Buquet's story, just last week Pampin, the fire man, had told a fantastical tale of a floating head that bobbed along the dark corridors of the cellars. The ballerine's wild imagination and deep superstition left no room for doubt in her mind; the Ghost had finally brought other spirits to haunt the halls of the Opera Populaire.

Sorelli shuddered with fright at the thought of the Opera Ghost. He had been here for many years; it was widely believed that he was the spirit of one of the workers who died during the construction of the grand opera house. Madame Giry claimed that the Ghost had roamed the halls ever since she was a young dancer; no one came forth to challenge her. Sorelli was certain that the Ghost had been there since her own introduction into the company at the tender age of seven. For years, the Ghost had been silent, although he still accepted his monthly allowance from the managers, which the company members collectively called blood money. Pampin's tale had only aroused the suspicion that the Ghost was about to strike again. When the Ghost was on the prowl, no one wanted to be caught wandering the halls alone.

~*~

Carlotta returned to her charming little house in Montmarte in a sullen mood. The sewer rat, as she affectionately called Sorelli, had triumphed. This wasn't the first time that Sorelli had outshone Carlotta--Carlotta had her moments of glory as well, but more often than not the two divas held each other in a stalemate. Carlotta knew there would be other nights of triumph on her behalf, but each defeat frightened her. Each new victory on Sorelli's part signaled the demise of Carlotta's reign.

With a heavy sigh, Carlotta seated herself before her vanity mirror. The sputtering lamp light played upon the lines in her face. Gently, unconsciously, Carlotta touched her long fingertips to the crow's feet around her dark Spanish eyes. Time, who was once her friend, was now her greatest enemy. During the past few years, the once-long lines of lovers and debutants waiting anxiously outside her window had dwindled to an alarming few.

Carlotta shook her head sadly, and in a voice thick with emotion, she asked her reflection, "Someday you will be too old to be onstage. And what, prima donna, will you do when you can no longer sing?"

The mirror image did not reply; it simply looked forlornly back at her in sympathy. Carlotta reached over and blew out the lamp. The moonlight that seeped through the windows was much kinder; her face seemed to lose some of its lines. Her eyes were dull; they had lost they shine many years ago. She looked around furtively before pushing down the collar of her dress. Even in the dim moonlight, the scar above her left breast was still visible. The Devil himself had left that mark, and like a brand, it remained just as fresh and evident as the day she had received it.

Carlotta felt that soon He would come to collect the rest of her soul. She shook her head and murmured softly, "Devil, Devil, what games will you play?"


	5. The Little Nightingale

**The Little Nightingale**

Carlotta did not return to the Opera the next morning. This, however, did not concern the managers; after seven years with La Carlotta, they'd learned to accept the fact that La Carlotta ran on her own time and with her own schedule. It was easier to simply submit to the will of the diva.

Sorelli, however, was early, as usual. Giry entered the practice room to find the ballerine going through her morning warm-up.

"Your foot is sickeling," Giry commented, eyeing Sorelli's pique turn with disdain. Sorelli did not stop her routine. She piqued once more, and Giry gave a nod of approval, "Much better."

Sorelli did not comment. The countless hours she had spent under Giry's tutelage evolved into a system in which Giry only spoke to correct and Sorelli did as she was told. There was no music; Sorelli kept time in her head. Occasionally Giry would prod her into a faster pace or throw in a terse correction, but for the most part, the only sound was the light pulse of Sorelli's satin slippers against the wooden floor.

When La Sorelli had finished, she turned to Giry with expectant eyes, "Alors, Madame?"

Giry gave a curt nod, "Bien."

Sorelli smiled, but tried not to grin too widely. Giry was the only mother she'd ever known; in the ballerine's eyes, Giry's word was law. Giry looked around, "Where is Gabriel?"

"He thought it improper for the two of us to be alone," Sorelli motioned around the room. "You know what the chorus brats would say. I would be having his child, even though he's never so much as touched me!"

Giry chuckled softly; it was true that gossip spread like wild fire through the cramped quarters of the Opera Populaire. Gabriel was smart to avoid such a situation.

"Tell me, Giry," Sorelli sat down and began unlacing her pointe shoes. "Why your daughter does not possess your talent?"

This was not meant as a barb; it was merely a statement of fact. Giry sighed, "I don't know. She does not have the fire, the passion, that deep drive within her soul."

"She is like her father, then," Sorelli surmised. She stood up and stood directly in front of Giry, "Why are you still here?"

"This is my home." Giry said with little emotion. "These are my people."

"And what will you do when your people are gone?" Sorelli asked.

Giry looked down at the wooden floor. Quietly, she replied, "They will never leave."

"Yes they will," Sorelli gave a quick jerk of her head. "Everyone leaves. Little Jammes, she will marry some aristocrat and go to live in a grand house in the country. Gabriel will find a better job; and Debienne and Poligny are already leaving."

Giry looked sharply at her, "How do you know this?"

Sorelli drew up one side of her mouth into a smile. She took a step closer to the instructor, "I have my ways."

"The Comte told you this?" Giry guessed. Sorelli laughed and slipped past Giry into the hallway. "Phillippe has no idea. No, Remy told me."

"And how does Remy know?"

"Because he wrote their letters of resignation to the Opera Ghost," Sorelli said over her shoulder as she sauntered off. "Perhaps our new managers will realize how old Carlotta is and finally dismiss her."

'Yes, perhaps," Giry said quietly to herself as Sorelli disappeared into the early morning shadows.

Giry could hear Gabriel approaching; his heavy boots seemed to pound the floor like thunder. Giry turned to face him, her face a mixture of uncertain emotions, "Gabriel, did you know that Debienne and Poligny are resigning?"

"That know-it-all Remy mentioned something about it last night," Gabriel commented nonchalantly, never stopping his pace as he entered the barre room and began to prepare for the onslaught of the corps de ballet. "He never can keep his mouth shut. Always trying to prove he knows more than the rest."

"When will they announce it?" Giry wondered aloud. Gabriel shrugged, "Remy didn't know. He just knows that the managers put in their resignation to the Opera Ghost two days ago."

Giry simply turned and left the room.

"Where are you going?" Gabriel called after her.

"I'll be back."

"That's no what I asked." Gabriel retorted wryly. Giry just flashed a smile over her shoulder and kept walking.

~*~

Box Five was empty, as usual. Giry still gave a timid knock on the door before entering. She seated herself in a plush velvet armchair and waited patiently. Her efforts were rewarded.

"Do you not know that this box belongs to the Opera Ghost?" came a chilling voice. There was no one in the box, but Giry was not surprised.

"I know well enough," Giry replied with a smile. "But I have come to see the Opera Ghost."

"No one can see a ghost," taunted the spirit.

"So they say," Giry still wore a wry smile. Her expression soon became serious, "I need your help."

"My help?" purred the voice. Giry gave a curt nod, "Yes. I want to ask you to teach little Daae to sing."

"But she has the voice of a peacock!" chuckled the voice. "Your darling little Meg would be better suited for lessons. Daae is a lost cause."

"She is the daughter of a violinist," Giry countered. "She has music in her blood. I think she will surprise you, Monsieur."

"Nothing surprises me anymore," the voice returned.

Giry turned to face the empty room, her brown eyes pleading as she searched the open air, "Please, Monsieur, promise me you will take Christine under your wing. You are a master of music; I know you can do it. Please."

"Why do you care so much for a child that isn't even your own?"

"The rest of my ballerines have families and loved ones to return to, if they ever choose to leave," Giry replied quietly. "But little Daae has no one. If the new managers get rid of me, who will protect her?"

"Typical Giry," the voice chuckled darkly. "Always concerned with the well-being of others. You really should try living for yourself for a change."

"And what good would that do me?" Giry asked the empty air. She shot a disdainful look in the direction of the voice, "What good did it do you?"

"That is not a fair question and you know it," the voice returned carelessly. As if on a whim, it replied, "You've won, Madame, I will take the little peacock under my wing. But only for a month. If she has not improved by then, I will abandon this futile cause."

"It isn't futile," Giry retorted softly. "I promise."

"Then it is as you say," the voice said courteously. "For Giry's word is worth more than gold; her silence is worth diamonds. But I am afraid, my dear, that you put too much faith in people."

"There are worse things I could do," Giry stood and exited the empty box.

"That I doubt." The voice became chillingly dark. But no one was there to hear it.


	6. Secret Understudies

**Secret Understudies**

**_*Author's Note: For Cascaper, who seems to be the only one reading this!*_**

La Carlotta brushed the large feather across her fair-skinned face and smiled demurely at her reflection. A new strand of glittering diamonds winked from her slender wrist, bringing attention to the pale perfection of her long, thin fingers. Watching herself carefully in the mirror, she scrutinized every move she made. She gracefully cupped her chin in her hands and smiled at herself. She had a manly chin--strong, with a clean cut jaw line--that seemed her most prominent facial feature, and would have been a horrible disadvantage had it not served to bring attention to her wondrous lips, which were utterly feminine--full and extremely kissable. She chuckled softly to herself. Gone was the tired old woman who stared forlornly back at her last night. Today sat a vibrant, vivacious mademoiselle with more talent than the whole of Florence. And today she was going to be adored.

"Oh, Bella Diva," she whispered to herself. "You can go on singing for years and years. No one can be as good as you."

There came a timid knock at the door. La Carlotta's audience had arrived. She turned around quickly, a look of childish excitement on her face, "Entre!"

In walked the Comte de Chagny, Phillippe, and his sister Victoire de Rossier, the patrons of the Opera Populaire. Victoire extended her arms and graciously kissed Carlotta's cheek, "Ah, La Carlotta Guidicelli, how wonderful to see you again."

"Madame de Rossier," Carlotta returned the embrace politely. Phillippe gave her a curt nod before kissing the diva's cheek as well, "Madamoiselle."

Carlotta flashed her most alluringly playful smile. If there was one thing Carlotta knew better than music, it was men. And Phillippe de Chagny was the manliest man in Paris--he was well known for his appetites. Carlotta knew her charms and played them wonderfully, as a musician would play a flute. She sat down with ease and motioned for her guests to do likewise. She smiled coyly at them, "So, to what do I owe this honor?"

"It's a rather odd reason," Victoire admitted. She had spent most of her life in England, with her grandmother, and thus spoke with a thick British accent. "We are here to discuss the matter of your understudy."

"And why would you want to do that?" Carlotta laughed. "I don't need an understudy; I've told you a thousand times."

"Yes, but we need to have one, just in case." Phillippe said. Carlotta leaned forward, her eyes charged with an electricity that only appeared in the presence of men, "And tell me, Comte, don't you think I'm healthy enough to perform? No one has ever complained about my performance before."

This innuendo was not lost on the Comte de Chagny, who briefly allowed a sly grin to creep onto his face, "Madamoiselle, no one is disputing your talent or your ability. It is merely a precaution. I personally would hate to see such a gift go to waste, but we certainly don't want to strain you. I assure you, no one could replace our Bella Diva."

Carlotta smiled coolly at this; she had to be reserved in the presence of Phillippe's sister. Besides, she couldn't give in to the Comte's demands at the first little compliment. These words had been uttered to her in various tones, dialects, and arrangements over a thousand times by many tongues; it would be a thousand more times before she would succumb to such boldfaced flattery. She shook her head gently, "I'm afraid I can't allow an understudy. La Carlotta has never needed an understudy, nor had an understudy. To take one now would be saying that I am becoming weak. I can't risk it."

"But everyone knows you're as fit as an ox," Victoire returned, her analogy having an offensive effect upon La Carlotta. "No one would think you were weak. There have been understudies since the invention of Opera. It's only natural. Besides, Principia can step in; she's more than able to do so."

"Non," Carlotta shook her head again, crossing her arms across her chest. "If you make Principia my understudy, you might as well make her the lead, because I will leave."

"Come, Carlotta darling, don't be so dramatic," Victoire cajoled her. "You theatre types are always throwing yourselves into a huff about the most frivolous things. What if you become ill and we have to refund a full house? Do you know how damaging that is to this opera?"

"I don't care," Carlotta said staunchly. "La Carlotta will not have an understudy."

Victoire took a deep breath and looked to her brother for help. His amused expression told her that she'd find no assistance in this matter. Wisely, Victoire let the matter drop, "All right, then, Mademoiselle, you win. No understudy. But mark my words: if you ever miss a performance--"

"The world will have come to an end," La Carlotta stood, and smiled graciously, her wide grin showing off her perfect string of pearly white teeth. This was her way of indicating that the meeting had come to a close. Victoire and Phillippe stood, made their farewells and exited. Carlotta returned to her vanity to examine her victorious reflection.

Once they were out of earshot, Victoire whispered to her brother, "Tell Mercier to find someone to begin practicing for La Carlotta's role. That windbag will have an understudy, whether she likes it or not."

"She won't take kindly to the idea," Phillippe warned, his face still holding that bemused expression.

"She won't know about it," Victoire returned. Phillippe stopped and looked at her. She smiled wryly, "What? You think I'm going to be told how to run my theatre? I think not, good sir. We'll have the understudy practice secretly. La Carlotta's ignorance is our bliss."

"As you wish, dear sister," Phillippe chuckled softly. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must go see to my little lightfoot."

The Comte quickly turned and made his way to La Sorelli's dressing room; Victoire could not help but roll her eyes and smile, "Ah, that little lightfoot shall be the end of you, Phillippe de Chagny."

Phillippe flashed a grin over his shoulder, "Yes, but what a wonderful end it shall be!"

~*~

Mercier sat in his office, pondering over Madame Victoire de Rossier's latest orders. A secret understudy? Who would be discreet enough to practice Carlotta's part without attracting the attention of the diva? Madame de Rossier had suggested Principia, an aspiring young Italian, but Mercier dismissed the thought immediately. Principia's prattling tongue would inform the whole world of her "secret" lessons, which would send La Carlotta into a whirlwind of fury, which, he, of course, would bear the brunt of, since the diva couldn't show too much animosity towards Madame de Rossier, who held the fate of the entire Opera house within her iron grasp.

At that moment, one of Mercier's favorite people came in, Madame Giry, the Ballet Mistress. Giry always wore a kind, matronly smile and she never said a cross word to anyone, except perhaps a young ballerine who seemed to be slacking. Merciers returned her warm smile, "Bonjour, Madame."

"Bonjour, Mercier," Giry almost sing-songed. Her expressive brown eyes never missed a beat, "What's wrong? You look troubled. Bad news from Madame de Rossier?"

"Madame, you are a mind reader," Mercier shook his head in slight disbelief. Like a mother, Giry always seemed to know what was wrong. Of course, that was mainly because she'd been at the Opera House longer than anyone else. "La Carlotta must have an understudy."

"And La Carlotta consented to this?" Giry was incredulous. Mercier chuckled wryly, "This is where the problem lies. La Carlotta isn't to know of it. So I must choose someone who is very discreet."

"Choose Christine Daae."

"Daae? But she sounds as flat as mud."

"She's taking lessons now."

"From whom?"

"From a teacher."

Mercier rolled his eyes at this obvious slight by Giry, but he knew better than to persist. He took a deep breath, "Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt. I'm to begin the practices within a fortnight."

"She'll be ready by then," Giry spoke with such certainty that Mercier felt compelled to believe it.

Just then, Remy the secretary entered. His blue eyes traveled the length of Giry's figure, "Madame, may I commend you on your choice of dress this morning? What a fine effect that dress has upon you!"

Giry turned to view him, an unimpressed look upon her face. Her upper lip curled in disdain, "Ah, Remy, I see they have not fired you yet."

"Why would they?" Remy asked, only slightly nervous. Giry's constant disinterest in his flattery always had an unsettling effect upon him.

Giry shrugged, "I just thought that with Debienne and Poligny leaving, the incoming managers would prefer a secretary who is more restrained. You know, someone with tact."

Remy took the insult with amazing graciousness; it was customary for Giry to point out Remy's lack of manners. Although she seemed abrupt, her coldness held a motherly tone which suggested scolding rather than ridicule. Giry's distant attitude toward the secretary was not one of hatred, but quite simply, it was her way of chastising Remy's flagrant behavior. So Remy took her sermon like an obedient sinner and returned to the papers on his desk with renewed interest.

Giry gave Mercier a quick, forced smile, and turned to leave, "Don't forget my suggestion, monsieur. I think you will be surprised."


	7. A Star is Born

**A Star is Born**

_Several Weeks Later._

La Carlotta closed the door to her dressing room, swearing under her breath in her native Spanish. Another meeting with the patrons. Another morning spent rejecting their futile pleas for an understudy. As she traversed the plush carpeted halls, the Bella Diva spotted her favorite target.

"Ah, Street Urchin," Carlotta smiled at Sorelli with false warmth. "I had the pleasure of seeing your Comte today. He was dressed quite nicely."

"Yes, I know." Sorelli forced a smile as well. "I had the pleasure of seeing him after he left you. He undresses quite nicely as well."

La Carlotta laughed at her enemy's reply. Sorelli always had a quick wit—a quality that Carlotta admired. It always made their encounters interesting.

Sorelli thought back to an earlier conversation with Phillippe. She knew that Victoire had already found an understudy for Carlotta. As much as she wanted to, Sorelli did not reveal this little tidbit to Carlotta. Such a remark would send the Spanish singer into a whirlwind of a tantrum; Sorelli was smart enough not to upset the volatile diva.

"Have you heard?" Sorelli looked at her fingernails carelessly. "We are going to have new managers."

"Yes, I have," Carlotta admitted, unsure of where this new line of conversation was headed.

"Perhaps," Sorelli still did not look at her adversary. "They will realize that certain performers are past their time. Perhaps some of us will be let go."

"Perhaps," Carlotta agreed, suddenly feeling a rising sense of fear. After her less-that-friendly run in with the patrons, Carlotta was in a very vulnerable position. If the new managers chose to end her contract, the Spanish diva would find herself without friends or allies.

So, Carlotta was determined to prove to them once and for all just how pivotal she was to the success of the Opera. She decided to play the one card she had left—she simply would feign illness, be unable to perform. Without an understudy, they would be forced to refund a full house. Then they would realize just how valuable the Bella Diva was. That would show them.

~*~

What Carlotta had not counted on was the fact that Victoire de Rossier had already commissioned an understudy. The Comte and his sister were more than prepared when the Diva sent a letter informing the managers that she had a sore throat and would be unable to attend the performance. This note was sent just hours before curtain—typical Carlotta.

"Oh, so she thinks she can pull the strings on my opera house?" Victoire chuckled amusedly as she crumpled up the letter and carelessly tossed it aside. "Well, let us show her who's boss."

She turned expectantly towards her brother, who simply shrugged, "As you wish."

Victoire let out a sigh. Phillippe was positively hopeless. Truth be told, Victoire was more ambitious than her brother, with a level head and an even temper. She was practical in business matters and shrewd with her money--talents that were not appreciated in women by society, which caused her to seek out her brother's assistance in sponsoring the Opera Populaire. Phillippe was the perfect patron--regal, of noble birth, dashing, handsome, well-educated and male. He was merely a smoke screen, the figurehead that kept Victoire's machinations hidden from public eye. In short, Victoire did the work and Phillippe got the credit. But it was an arrangement that both found to their liking: Phillippe enjoyed the praise and celebrity of being the brilliant patron; Victoire enjoyed the idea that all the men who proclaimed her brother's brilliance were really touting her own.

And so this formidable woman sat before Christine Daae, her ice blue eyes sizing up the small, insignificant looking little chorus girl, "She doesn't look like much."

"Looks can be deceiving," Giry replied smoothly, looking Victoire in the eye. Not many people did that.

Victoire smiled, "Alright then, Giry. If you say she's ready to step in for La Carlotta, then I believe you. But remember: if she isn't—"

"She's right here," Giry motioned to the girl seated before her, as if Victoire had forgotten. "Why don't you ask her yourself?"

Victoire turned to Christine once more. Christine felt a slight jump of fear.

"Are you able to do this?" Victoire's eyes seemed to pierce Christine's very soul.

"Yes," Christine replied timidly.

Victoire arched an eyebrow, "Your response is not exactly filling me with confidence."

"I can do it," Christine spoke with a little more force this time. Victoire smiled.

"Good. Now hurry to Costuming. We'll have to make sure everything fits before tonight."

~*~

Sorelli ran a hand over her perfectly coiffed hair. Regine was uncharacteristically quiet tonight, but she didn't really care. She preferred the silence. Normally, she would be mentally preparing for the on and off stage battle with La Carlotta that would usually accompany a performance, but Carlotta was not performing tonight. Some hopeful (hopeless, in Sorelli's opinion) chorus girl was taking her place. So tonight, Sorelli had no competition--all eyes would be on her, where she preferred them.

She looked at herself in the mirror one last time, straightening the bow in her hair and smoothing her gauzy ballet skirt. There was a knock on the door and a call for La Sorelli to report backstage. A final spritz of perfume, one last swig of champagne. Out the door.

~*~

"So nice to see you, Princess," Madame Giry, remarked dryly. La Sorelli had not attended the pre-performance barre exercise.

"A pleasure to see you as well, Madame," Sorelli replied courteously. She was the belle of the ball tonight, nothing could dampen her spirits.

The props were put in place, the lights adjusted just-so, the costumes fitted and tied to perfection. Stage hands lumbered about, yelling instructions and cursing one another loudly. Thankfully, the aristocratic audience could not hear this common clamor over the grand notes of the orchestra warming up. Sorelli exhaled deeply as a chill ran up her spine. This was her favorite time: the split second before the curtain rises and the world roars with delight at the sight of your face. She lived for this moment, the feeling of immortality and invincibility. She'd been here, standing in this very spot a hundred times before, but it never grew old. Each time was unique, but always full of love and adoration.

A homeless street urchin until she was taken in by the principle ballet, Sorelli felt she could never have too much love. She drank it up and begged for more; her wishes were always granted. Heaven forbid that when she grew too old to perform, her faithful followers would leave her in favor of some young, outstanding dancer, but that was many years into the future. Sorelli lived only for the moment.

She looked across the hall at Carlotta's replacement. If her memory served her well, Sorelli thought the child's name was Christine. Poor girl, she was pale as a ghost! She couldn't have been a day over fifteen. And to be taking the place of La Carlotta, Paris' renowned opera performer! What a nemesis!

La Sorelli did not try to comfort Christine. It was not her place to uplift the only other person sharing the spotlight. Better to have Christine completely fail and accent Sorelli's perfection than to have Christine outdo La Carlotta and La Sorelli in one fell swoop.

Everyone rose to their feet at the sight of La Sorelli; she grinned obligingly at her ecstatic audience. As usual, she was perfect--not one misstep, not one wrong turn. She was absolutely breathtaking to watch. Not a whisper stirred among the audience, not a cough dared to interrupt La Sorelli's magic. There was utter silence until the dancer finished her last pirouette with flourish. Then, like a roar of thunder, the audience broke into applause. The curtain lowered and La Sorelli the Triumphant walked away victorious. Glory and honor was hers tonight. Eat your heart out, La Carlotta.

~*~

Now the time had finally come for Christine's grand appearance. She meekly strode onto the stage, her thin lips quivering with fear. She stood still for a moment, frozen with fright. Backstage, the other chorus girls twittered anxiously. She was one of their own, they wished her the best. Besides, if Christine was successful, she would unleash the gate that held back every chorus girl's dream of being a prima donna. If she failed, so would they, and all would be resigned to a lifetime of chorus. How mundane.

La Sorelli also stood backstage, but she was not praying for Christine's success. Her green eyes narrowed in evil delight at the girl's obvious stage fright. Fate favored Sorelli. Or so she thought.

Whispers of shock and confusion rippled through the crowd. Where was La Carlotta? Was she ill? Had she been let go, after so many seasons with the Opera? And to be replaced by some unknown chorus brat! How scandalous!

A change came over Christine's pale face. She would show them. She would prove them wrong. The Orchestra began, slowly, softly. Seemingly from nowhere came a clear, strong voice. It was Christine Daae, bravely carrying the notes to soaring heights and rich lows. Even Sorelli was impressed. The whispers of indignation and outrage subsided. The new angel cast her spell, and Carlotta was pushed to the back of everyone's mind.

The night ended on a high--and grand--note. The audience cheered and whistled and clapped with delight; roses of every color covered the stage. Sorelli sulkily basked in the glow of her adoring public. The chorus brat had upstaged her.

"La Sorelli, what a night!" Phillippe cried out joyously. He stood waiting outside her dressing room, a single rose in hand. "And Christine--how superb! Carlotta will be lucky to remain in the chorus, much less hold the place of principle singer!" Phillippe turned to his younger brother, Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. "You remember Christine, don't you? The violinist's daughter?"

"In the house by the sea, she was called Little Lotte," replied Raoul softly. He was pale, with large, watery brown eyes and a thin nose. Sorelli did not care for him. He was too feminine for her taste. Phillippe, on the other had, was a paragon of beauty and brawn. Perfect skin with a shock of blonde hair that fell boyishly in his eyes, Phillippe was charming and well-bred. What more could an orphaned girl ask for? He was her Prince Charming, come to rescue her from a lifetime of squalor. When she became too old to be of any use to the Opera Populaire, Sorelli would accept Phillippe's long-standing offer and become his mistress, leading life of lavish luxury. The idea that Phillippe may not wait that long never crossed Sorelli's mind. She was content with her plans, shouldn't he be as well?

The chant of "Daae! Daae!" could be heard throughout the halls and dressing rooms. Sorelli rolled her green eyes in distaste and slinked away to her dressing room. She still had her fans, her public. But now she shared them with another. Sorelli was not good at sharing.

And so that night a star was born, this time in the form of young Christine Daae, the dead Swiss violinist's daughter, the hopeful chorus girl who was now catapulted to the highest form of celebrity that Paris could offer: she was the star of the Opera Populaire.


	8. Angels and Adoring Public

**Angels and Adoring Public**

**_*Author's Note: Much love to everyone who has reviewed. Also, I apologize for taking so long to post new chapters, but sadly my personal life has experienced several rather dramatic incidents over the past two weeks, and I have been a bit busy with that. Never fear, though--Mim's back on track!*_**

Raoul did not get a chance to see Christine that night. The line of hopeful fans stretched from her door, to the foyer, into the street and forever onward. He would have to wait. There was always tomorrow.

Tomorrow was much more promising. Phillippe went to visit his sweet Sorelli the next afternoon (everyone knows not to approach the Opera before noon--the performers are recovering from the previous night's party). Raoul followed as usual, but this time he had a purpose. He would speak to Christine. He would see if she remembered him—her childhood playmate of rosy years past.

It wasn't until Raoul had knocked on her dressing room door that he realized that perhaps they no longer had anything in common, much less anything to talk about. But it was too late now.

"Please, come in, Mother Giry," a soft voice called out.

"It is not Mother Giry who knocks," Raoul replied. He remained outside, lest he stumble in upon Christine indecently and cause scandal. Men in high positions must always think of these things.

"Then who is it?" The door opened slightly and a large, brown eye appeared. Raoul took a bow, "I am Vicomte de Chagny, mademoiselle—"

"Raoul!" Christine cried happily, throwing the door open and wrapping the Vicomte in an embrace. "I never expected to see you again! I mean, I knew your brother is our new patron, but I never thought you'd recognize me or even remember or if you did, you might not want to speak with someone like me."

"Why wouldn't I speak to my best friend of childhood?" Raoul asked, confused.

Christine smiled softly, looking much wiser than her fifteen years, "Raoul, surely you realize that a man of your rank and position cannot be seen with a mere chorus girl. The world does not know who I am, or the life I used to live. The world does not care. I once had everything you did, and now all I have is Mother Giry and my Angel."

"Your Angel?" Raoul blanched, thinking Christine had either a lover or a child.

Seeing his expression, Christine laughed, the sound ringing gaily through the halls, "It's not what you think, Raoul. The Angel of Music watches over me and guides me in my dreams. It is the Angel who gave me my voice."

"And where is this Angel, that I may see?" Asked Raoul playfully. Now that his initial shock had been soothed, he expected Christine to reveal a token or relief of some saint.

To his surprise, Christine looked at him as if he were mad, "No one has ever seen the Angel, not even I. Mother Giry is the only other one to hear his voice."

"Well, speak to him, so that I may hear him," Raoul wished to follow Christine's game; he was ready for anything.

Christine shook her head, "The Angel speaks only when he pleases, and then only to coach my voice, so that I may bring honor and glory to the Angel."

For the first time, Raoul realized that Christine was serious. He suddenly was filled with pity for the girl. She had obviously gone into a state of mental decay in the years since her father's death. Pity, she had such a lovely voice.

"Come, let us go somewhere and talk of times past," Raoul offered his arm in a gallant fashion. "I want to hear everything that has happened since you left the little house by the sea, Little Lotte."

"I haven't been called that since my father died," Christine smiled, flashing perfect pearly teeth as she bashfully took Raoul's arm. The only men she'd known were stagehands and the occasional orchestra players, who for the most part were polite, but none were true, high-bred gentlemen. Raoul swelled with pride to have so pretty a prize on his arm. He led her through the main foyer, where crowds of anxious fans pressed against the glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of one stage persona or another.

At the sight of Christine, the crowd erupted into an urgent roar of "Daae! Daae!"

Christine turned absolutely white and Raoul feared she would faint. He gently led her into another corridor, away from the sunlight and screams. Christine's brown eyes were as wide as saucers, "H-How do they know me?"

"Everyone knows you," Raoul smiled softly. "After your performance last night, all of Paris knows your name. You have become a celebrity, Christine."

Most would have found the idea intriguing, but Christine only grew more sickly-looking. "Celebrity? What must I do, as a celebrity?"

Raoul laughed good-naturedly at her ignorance, "Why, nothing at all, Little Lotte. You merely go about your day as you usually would and occasionally smile and wave at the crowd. The public is content just to see your face everyday and hear your voice every night."

"Is this was La Sorelli and La Carlotta do everyday?"

"Yes, but it is even harder for them, because they are older and uglier," Raoul grinned mischievously. "They have to work hard to keep the public in love with them."

"Sorelli is beautiful," said Christine quietly, refuting Raoul's claim. "How could anyone not love her?"

There is one thing you must learn: the Opera is its own world, its own family. The outside world does not exist to the members of the Opera. The public is considered a nameless, faceless part of the world, like a force of nature. The public is not made up of individuals; it is merely the reflection of the stage lights in their looking glasses.

The Opera House operated dutifully under the caste system—a cherished tradition among the self-important divas and the domineering managers. There were the young girls, sent to the Opera to live and train under Madame Giry. Then, at the age of twelve, the girls were promoted to the corps de ballet, where they lived in poverty by day and danced for royalty by night. The corps de ballet were almost as low as the stagehands, but they had prettier faces and better costumes. The principle dancers and singers did not deem the corps worthy of their attention, but like all young girls, the corps worshipped the stage celebrities. Mother Giry was to be obeyed; Carlotta was to be feared; and Sorelli was to be adored. Despite Sorelli's obvious dislike for these urchins (she conveniently forgot her own humble beginnings), the girls watched her every move with hungry eyes, emulating her in the privacy of their bedrooms and following her personal affairs through the local gossip columns.

Which is why, dear friends, Christine Daae now so steadfastly protested the wonder of La Sorelli, Le Bijou de Paris.

As if on cue, La Sorelli descended the grand staircase, bedecked in a glorious costume of gold spangles and brightly colored jewels. Now the crowd cried out joyously, "La Sorelli! Belle diva! Le Bijou de Paris!"

Sorelli lowered her head and smiled from the corner of her eyes. The crowd cheered at this humble gesture. The doors were locked for the safety of the performers; Sorelli's audience could not reach her. They pounded the glass, crying out their undying love and devotion:

"Sorelli à jamais! Le Bijou de Paris! Sorelli forever! The Jewel of Paris!"

Sorelli was not called _Elle qui tient le Coeur de Paris dans ses mains_—She who holds the Heart of Paris in her hands—for nothing. All of Paris, which was all the world to her, adored her with the steadfast devotion of a lap dog. Christine watched from the shadows, her pretty little eyes taking it all in.

Sorelli descended the staircase, waving politely at the crowd. As she turned to go to her dressing room, Sorelli blew a kiss. The throng went wild with delight. The gracious diva turned down the hall and instantly dropped her lovely smile. Sorelli had heard the roar of Christine's name before she made her grand entrance, and underneath her calm exterior, she was incensed. To make matters worse, she'd just be informed that La Carlotta would be returning to take her place as the lead singer in tonight's performance. It seemed like the end of the world for La Sorelli. Little did she know, it was just the beginning of a waking nightmare.

"Ah, Lightfoot," Raoul smiled charmingly at the irate ballerina as she blew past. His tone held a forced cheerfulness—it was no secret that the two did not care for each other. Mainly because each accused the other of stealing Phillippe's affections.

"Hello, Sailor-boy," Sorelli's voice also held the warmthless lilt of false friendship. Both shot daggers with their eyes.

Innocent Christine did not notice the angry undercurrent, "Oh, you two know each other? How wonderful!"

"Yes," Sorelli's expression belied the fact that she did not find it wonderful. "Absolutely delightful."

Turning her green cat eyes onto the young girl, the ballerina lost her smile, "Tell me, Chrissy—"

"Christine," Raoul corrected, much to Sorelli's displeasure.

"How do you like your new audience?" Sorelli motioned towards the doors, which still held back the flood of armourous fans.

"I-I'm still a little overwhelmed by it all," Christine admitted with a shy grin.

"Yes," Sorelli arched a disapproving eyebrow at the young Viscomte. "It's amazing how many friends come out of the woodwork when one reaches a certain level of fame."

"Almost as many as those who come out when one reaches a certain level of promiscuity," Raoul replied coolly, without so much as the bat of an eye. Sorelli bristled at the accusation, but she was smart enough not to retort. She may be sleeping with his brother, but La Sorelli was still beneath Raoul—and he was still technically her patron.

"Excuse me, dear ones," the ballerina gathered her skirts icily. "I have business to attend to."

"Until we meet again," Raoul called cheerfully after her. He was enjoying this new game of verbal sparring with his brother's latest conquest.

Christine stared at him in disbelief, "How dare you speak to her like that!"

"What?" Raoul fought back the urge to laugh at his friend's expression. "She is merely human, like everyone else. Apparently she needs someone to remind her of that, from time to time."

"Yes, but she's—"

"A dancer, nothing more," Raoul interrupted smoothly. He gently led Christine away from the foyer, "Come, let's find someplace quieter to catch up on old times."

In truth, Raoul would never have been so spiteful towards La Sorelli—no matter how much he disliked her. But something about the way she treated Christine had caused the young Vicomte to react. Something inside of him had stirred, and risen to the singer's defense. Perhaps it was the fact that Christine was so young, so innocent—she didn't even realize that Sorelli was preparing to mentally rip her to shreds!

Raoul smiled warmly down at the wide-eyed young girl who walked beside him, so blindly unaware of everything. She needed someone to protect her, to save her from all the Sorellis of this world. Someone like…him.

~*~

"5,6,7,8—Releve, plie, releve—Annette, straighten your spine!" Madame Giry paced the dance floor, coaching the girls through their mid-morning barre exercises. She watched each ballerina with a critical eye, occasionally throwing out corrections or praises as she circled the barre.

Gabriel watched from his perch in the corner with an amused smile. Whenever Giry circled the barre like that, he always thought of a hawk swooping over its next victim. Wisely, the chorus master kept these thoughts to himself.

The usual pianist had fallen ill and Remy was more than happy to leave his desk and spend the day tapping the keys and observing Giry's beautiful young wards. He was making eyes at Cecile Jammes, whose dark eyes twinkled in response. Giry noticed the nonverbal exchange; perhaps that was why she was in such a foul mood. She was very protective of her ballerines.

Giry dismissed the corps de ballet and sent them to a costume fitting before turning to Gabriel with a bone-weary sigh, "I'm afraid there are not enough hours in the day."

Gabriel laughed, "Surely they're not that far behind."

"You tell me."

"I thought they looked quite nice," Remy offered. A quick look from Giry immediately silenced him.

"The choreography isn't that hard," Gabriel reassured the ballet mistress. "They will learn it in time."

"Thank you for your help, Remy," Giry said sincerely. The secretary gave a small smile—it was one of the few times that she was not chastising him. With a playful bow to his companions, Remy left the room.

"I don't like him being around my girls," Giry's eyes watched Remy's form retreat down the hall.

"I know," Gabriel smiled. That was the understatement of the century.

"Especially Cecile Jammes."

"Why?" Gabriel asked playfully. "Are you afraid that Cecile is going to fall for Remy's charming tricks?"

"No," Giry admitted. "I'm afraid he is going to fall for hers."

Gabriel laughed. Giry did not.

"Jammes is a very smart girl," the ballet mistress continued to stare down the hall, even though Remy was now completely out of sight. "And pretty, too. That is a very dangerous combination."

"How so?" Gabriel was genuinely intrigued.

"She knows what she wants. And she possesses the beauty to get it," Giry gave a sad shake of her head. "But they're all the same—girls like her, they are never satisfied. Like Icarus, they reach for the sun, and in doing so, they fall into the sea."

"Perhaps Jammes is different."

"No," the corner of Giry's mouth quirked into a odd smile—one that Gabriel couldn't quite read. "I can see it in her eyes—that hunger, with just a hint of desperation, all thinly veiled behind the mask of innocence and purity."

"Sounds a bit harsh, don't you think?" Gabriel was surprised the by the usually mild mistress' unforgiving words.

"It is the truth," Giry said simply, and it was. By nature, Madame Giry was a kind and loving person; she never said anything out of hatred or idle spite.

Gabriel knew this. He exhaled deeply, slipping his hands into his pockets, "Well, for Jammes' sake, I hope you are wrong."

Giry gave a small sad smile, "I hope so, too."


	9. Return of the Belle Diva

**Return of the Belle Diva**

La Carlotta returned that very afternoon in a dizzying whirl of skirts and taffeta, jewels and plumes, maids and attendants. As the Belle Diva Soprano of the Opera Populaire, she commanded the largest dressing room and the finest trinkets that Paris had to offer. It was just past noon and already the room was overflowing with sprays of various blooms, all giving off intoxicatingly sweet fragrances.

La Carlotta had been very ill (or so she said), but upon hearing of the Opera's promising new talent, she willed herself back into good health and immediately returned to work. The Opera's managers, Debienne and Poligny, eagerly awaited the singer's arrival and begin setting things right once again. Despite Victoire and Phillippe's hard stance against pampering the volatile lady, the managers seemed to bend over backwards to accommodate the Belle Diva.

Carlotta was a very intelligent woman; she knew that Christine's success spelled trouble for her own career. The oldest female performer, Carlotta felt pressured to tighten her hold on the stage. In a few short years, no one would want to hear her sing. She would be an outcast, unable to afford all the finery and fashion that she was so accustomed to. Already she had begun to branch out--but quietly, so the papers did not find out--in other directions. She had put a rather large sum on the silk trade and placed her money in various other speculations. She would have her money and keep a regular flow of cash even after her days at the Opera Populaire ended. Like Sorelli, she had once devised a plan of marrying a prominent nobleman, but he did not wish to wait on her. However, she did not warn Sorelli of this danger—Carlotta felt it better for Sorelli to find out on her own. Enemies have an awful habit of doing such things.

The Diva was introduced to the two men, Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin. She was informed that these gentlemen would soon assume Debienne and Poligny's place as managers of the Opera Populaire.

Carlotta was uneasy about the Opera's newest managers—they did not seem so easily persuaded by her charms or her threats. Perhaps she was losing her edge. The birth of Christine Daae as the newest nightingale on the soprano scene did nothing to calm Carlotta's fears.

How Young Daae had risen to glory was beyond Carlotta's reasoning. This was not Christine's first performance; she'd often sang as Siebel, opposite Carlotta's Margarita, and had always given a mediocre performance at best. From what dark recess had Daae's talent emerged, after countless years of second-rate performing?

Powdering her nose with determination, Carlotta devised her plan. She would fight this to the end. No snot-nosed child would steal the spotlight from La Carlotta, the Bella Diva of Paris. Not without a fight.

~*~

"A speech?" Sorelli looked at Mercier with a critical eye. "In case you haven't noticed, Monsieur, I am more nimble with my feet than my tongue."

"I know of a few men who would beg to differ," Remy interjected with a smirk. A satin pink pointe shoe flew at his head in response.

Mercier shot the secretary a disapproving look before returning his attention to the diva, "Please, La Sorelli—it's for the Retirement Gala!"

"Oh, fine," the ballerina rolled her green eyes and began scrutinizing her reflection once more. Mercier and Remy had appeared during her daily costume inspection, begging for her help. She hated having people in her quarters—her dressing room was her haven, her sanctuary from the crazed, ever-changing world of theatre. It seemed unnatural to have these two men sitting awkwardly on her settee, fiddling their thumbs with nervous anticipation.

"Is there anything else?" Her reflection stared back at them, silently daring them to waste one more second of her valuable time.

"Not at all," Mercier smiled weakly, excusing himself. Remy stayed behind.

"You know, Sorelli, that color makes your eyes—"

"Save it for Cecile," she didn't even bother to turn away from her reflection.

"What?"

"That is your newest conquest, is it not? Cecile Jammes?" Sorelli asked in a bored tone as she straightened the bow around her waist. Really, where was Regine when she needed her?

"How do you know?" Remy wasn't really concerned with how Sorelli got her information—more importantly, he wanted to know if Madame Giry was aware.

"I have my ways," Sorelli now turned to look at him, her green eyes dancing mischeviously. "I take it that Giry does not approve."

"I hope she doesn't know."

"I hope so, too—for your sake," Sorelli gave a wry chuckle. She knew how protective Giry could be—she also knew what it was like to be on the wrong side of the ballet mistress' temper.

"Would you…" Remy seemed almost afraid to form the question. "Would you help me?"

"Do what?"

"Woo Cecile."

"Woo?" Sorelli gave an unladylike snort of amusement. "Since when did you woo anyone, Remy?"

"She's different."

"Ah, I see." Sorelli really did not see. Cecile was just a plain girl; nothing special.

"Will you help me?" The desperation was now evident in Remy's voice.

Sorelli turned to the secretary with a warm smile, "Of course I will."

~*~

After Remy left, Sorelli had some time to think. Sure, Remy had chased her, once upon a time. And yes, it had been invigorating, knowing that an older man was enamored by her, but Sorelli had never given in to his advances. In all honesty, she found him to be an absolute bore. He had chased hundreds of girls before her and hundreds more after her.

But this was different. Remy had said Cecile Jammes was different—which meant that Sorelli wasn't.

Sorelli knew she had grown too old for Remy's tastes, but she had always assumed that she held some special place in his fantasies as the one who got away. Now she realized that he probably had not even thought twice about her. This did not sit well with La Sorelli. After all, she was Le Bijou de Paris—The Jewel of Paris! How could she not be special?

~*~

Debienne and Poligny's retirement gala was a huge success. Mademoiselle Daae performed once more, and once again the audience received her with such warmth and admiration that Carlotta's eyes became pits of hatred, shooting fire and brimstone at anyone who dared mention the young girl's name.

After Christine's final performance of the evening, she fainted dead away, much to the dismay of everyone else. She was carried away to her dressing room and the doctor was called for.

Gabriel just shook his head, "Poor thing. The stress is just too much for her."

"She will learn to cope with it," Madame Giry said carelessly as she hustled by, picking up random ballet skirts that the corps had thrown off in order to change for another scene.

"It is most odd," said Gabriel, sidling up to Giry. "Until a few weeks ago, Christine sang like a peacock."

"Until a few weeks ago, she was only given menial roles," Giry pointed out, not even looking up from her work. "Perhaps a bigger role calls for a bigger voice."

Gabriel did not reply, but he suspected that Giry knew more that she was telling. The ballet instructor was not in a good humor; Gabriel knew it was useless to try to get information from her. He watched Giry go about her work, his blue eyes following her every move.

Suddenly, a cry of terror rose from the stage and the ballet corps rushed toward Madame Giry, squealing and squawking all at once. Giry opened her arms, taking them all in, "Hush now, my darlings. What is it?"

"Joseph Buquet is dead!" cried Little Francoise.

Madame Giry blanched at the words, "Dead?"

"He's hanging in the third cellar, with the scenery," sniffled Marie. The girls twittered and sobbed with fright, nodding their heads. Giry looked around wildly, "Where are the other girls? Where is Jammes and Meg and Louise and Martine?"

"They are downstairs, at the gala," replied Annette, who was the smallest ballerina in the corps. She had just turned twelve that summer; tonight was her first performance. Poor Annette burst into a fresh onslaught of tears.

Giry smoothed the girl's jet black locks, "There, there, little one. Girls, you must all go downstairs, and hurry! But please, do not let Monsieur Debienne and Monsieur Poligny see that you have been crying. Let's not ruin their last night at the Opera."

The girls nodded and disappeared down the hallway, trotting as fast as their little legs could carry them. Giry shot a meaningful look at Gabriel, "I suppose we must go and see what has happened to Buquet."

With a heavy sigh, Gabriel held the stage door open, allowing Madame Giry to enter first. Her black heels clipped through the halls at a fairly rapid pace until she reached the scenery. She stopped short and rocked back on her heels, as if she'd been struck.

Gabriel caught her just in time, keeping his hand on the small of her back to support her. He, too, was taken back. There lay Joseph Buquet on the floor, his eyes opened in eternal terror.

"He has been cut down," said Giry simply, not moving from her position. Her tiny hands covered her mouth in horror.

Gabriel walked over and crouched next to the body. He noticed the bruising on the neck. "The girls were right, Giry. But where is the rope?"

Giry took a few steps closer to the sets, making a wide detour around Buquet's lifeless body. She stared at the wall for a moment, then straightened her shoulders. A strange look came into her eyes, but she kept silent. She turned her attention elsewhere. Gabriel noted her odd behavior but said nothing. It was always best not to question Giry, and besides, there were more important matters at hand.

The two searched for the missing rope for quite a while, but were unsuccessful. The Official Inquest wrote the whole incident up as a suicide. But Giry and Gabriel knew it wasn't so. The absent rope still had not been found. The new manager, Armand Moncharmin, claimed the corps de ballet had taken the rope. Giry and Gabriel had exchanged incredulous glances at this preposterous conclusion, but kept quiet.

Let the fools think what they will. Everyone knows it was the Opera Ghost.


	10. Satire and Champagne

**Satire and Champagne**

The matter of Joseph Buquet's death was kept quiet, mainly due to the other half of the corps de ballet, who claimed to have seen the Opera Ghost roaming the halls that very night. Thanks to Little Jammes, who screamed out at every shadow, "The Opera Ghost!" and kept the dinner guests in a general uproar, the night was full of excitement.

Much to La Carlotta's delight, Christine did not leave her room. Much to La Sorelli's dismay, Carlotta commanded the majority of the dinner guests. This was just another part of the ongoing rivalry between the two divas: who had more guests, who had better frocks, who had richer lovers or finer jewels. So far, Carlotta had won in the guest department, but Sorelli won hands down elsewhere. After all, she was seeing a comte!

Phillippe was telling La Sorelli some story about some Duke who had placed a wager against his finest horse. Sorelli was only half listening; her green eyes were watching Carlotta. She occasionally strained her neck to see above the crowd. Sorelli's one imperfection was that she was shorter than most, but that is what fuelled her desire for perfection in her ballet skills.

"Have you heard a word I've just said?" Phillippe demanded in a slightly amused tone.

"What? No," answered Sorelli truthfully. She shook her head, as if to clear away her muddled thoughts. "I'm sorry, I'm just thinking…about Buquet. He died tonight."

"Did he really?" Phillippe had never heard of Joseph Buquet, but he went along with the conversation.

Sorelli nodded gravely, swirling the contents of her champagne glass absentmindedly, "They say he hung himself. But a dead man cannot untie his own rope, can he?"

"I suppose not," said Phillippe slowly. Not knowing all of the details, he was slightly confused by his dancer's musings.

"No, he cannot," repeated Sorelli in a quiet but strong voice. "He very well cannot."

Sorelli had been in her dressing room, preparing her speech when the ballet brats had burst in, laughing nervously to keep from crying. They had claimed to have seen the Opera Ghost walk right by, clothed in evening finery. Now Sorelli was very superstitious; she believed in the Phantom whole-heartedly. She saw it as no coincidence that the Ghost had appeared just moments before the other dancers brought news of Buquet's death. The examiner could write whatever he wanted, but Sorelli knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Buquet did not kill himself. He had angered the Phantom in someway, and like God, the Phantom had brought wrathful punishment upon the poor soul.

Phillippe watched her brow furrow in thought, and he felt a sudden urge to kiss that lovely forehead. He did so, in front of everyone, but Sorelli did not blush. She never blushed. Her own life had been so empty that love was not something to be embarrassed by.

"Phillippe, where is Raoul?" asked Mariette, sister born between Phillippe and Victoire. Her grey eyes searched the room unsuccessfully. "I haven't seen him since that poor soprano fainted and he bolted from the box."

"What was his hurry, anyways?' Victorie gave a small frown.

La Sorelli gave a charming smile, expressing feelings she did not possess, "Why, to see to his little songbird, Mademoiselle Daae, of course."

"Is this true?" Mariette turned to Phillippe, aghast at such a thought. Phillippe was older and wise in the ways of the world; he could do what he wanted. But Raoul—poor, young, foolish, Raoul!—did not know how to handle such things. After all, he'd been raised by women, and had not spent much time on the social scene. He did not know how to avoid scandal (which, you must admit, is a very important lesson to learn).

Phillippe shrugged, slightly angry at Sorelli's comment. He did not want his sisters to know of Raoul's newest attraction.

"Really, Phillippe, you must have a talk with him," Mariette shook her head sadly. "He needs to learn that he has to be careful in matters such as these."

"Matters such as these?" Phillippe was uncertain of Mariette's meaning.

"Why, this girl is part of the Opera," she spoke as if Christine had committed a horrible crime. Sorelli caught the degrading tone and was not pleased, but for Phillippe's sake, she kept her mouth shut. Mariette continued, "I mean, these girls would say anything in order to marry a Chagny. We have no idea of her history, her upbringing. Really, Phillippe, this isn't wise."

"Oh, would you stop your twittering," Victorie rolled her eyes, fanning herself lightly. "Raoul has to learn from his own mistakes. You have to let him go sometime, dear sister."

"Victorie is right," Phillippe agreed.

"Of course I am," Victorie gave her brother a playful nudge. "That's why Father loved me best."

Phillippe shook his head, grinning. It was a game the two had played ever since they were young; it was a competition to see who could be more daring, more adventurous, to win Father's love. I feel I must add that Old Phillipbert, the former Comte de Chagny, loved all of his children equally, but that did not stop his eldest son and youngest daughter from trying. Now Phillippe, being male, had more chances to show his mettle; in Victorie's defense, she took every chance that was allowed her and never looked back. An excellent horsewoman, Victorie could also wield a broadsword (although few knew it, lest it cause a scandal) and could probably have beaten her own brother in a fencing match, had Phillippe not refused to take arm against his sister.

Mariette would not be deterred, "I am quite serious, Phillippe. If you won't talk to him, then I will."

"You'd best do it," Victorie said to her brother. "Lest Mariette reduces him to tears. She's a stickler at that."

"A stickler with excellent hearing," Mariette added in a cold tone. She did not share her siblings' sense of humor; she hated being the butt of a joke.

Eager to change the subject, Sorelli feigned a yawn, "My, it's late, isn't it, Phillippe? Perhaps you should escort me to my room."

The ballerine turned to Mariette with a forced smile, "It has been a pleasure to see you again, as always. And Victorie, you must visit me more often. We have so much to catch up on."

Now this seemingly kind offer to Victorie was really a cleverly disguised barb aimed at Mariette. Sorelli knew that Mariette hated when the "common" dancer addressed members of the De Chagny family with such familiarity. The uptight sister also strongly disapproved of Phillippe's relationship with Sorelli, who was, after all, one of those desperate Opera girls.

Mariette was filled with an overwhelming urge to slap Sorelli's smug face, but her fear of retribution from Phillippe's sharp tongue outweighed her desire to throttle the dancer. Instead, Mariette gritted her teeth, forced a smile, and made a mental note never to return to the Opera Populaire again.

Phillippe, being a man and quite unaware in the subtle tones of women, just smiled cordially, thinking all was right in the world. But Victorie, being a woman herself, snickered at the outright insult that Sorelli had thrown in Mariette's face. She also couldn't help but laugh at Mariette's helplessness in the situation.

Without further ado, La Sorelli took the Comte de Chagny's arm and, with a coy smile, led him out of the room.

"Ooh, I cannot stand that whore of a ballerine!" Mariette muttered darkly.

Victorie attempted to hide her smile, "Oh, really? I find her quite charming."

"You wouldn't if you knew the whole truth," Mariette replied in a stage whisper. "She has no family. Doesn't even know who her parents were! She spent the first half of her life as a beggar on the streets of Paris."

"And now she is one of the greatest performers that France has to offer," Victorie added. She felt slightly protective of all the performers, as a mother would feel about her children. After all, they were the reason her Opera House retained a full queue.

"Yes, but greatness really isn't the best judge of one's character," Mariette retorted. "It's family history from that tells the most about a person."

"For all we know, Sorelli was the daughter of a Duke," Victorie said philosophically, taking a sip of her champagne.

"Or the daughter of a common whore." Mariette spat out the words. "The apple never falls far from the tree."

Victorie shook her head, "I disagree. Mamman was an utterly selfless creature—

denying her own wants in order to pursue the happiness of her family. I am not like her at all."

"You are not like her, perhaps," Mariette stiffened with pride, her chest swelling at her own deeds. "But I am the perfect model of Dear Mamman."

"You are?" Victorie nearly spewed champagne from her mouth.

Mariette seemed slightly miffed by her sister's incredulity, "Yes, I am. Why, I always give alms to the poor. I always do what society requires of me. And I never bear a grudge against anyone, nor do I waste my time with idle gossip."

"And what of your attack on La Sorelli?" Victorie asked in an amused tone.

"Attack?" Mariette seemed shocked. "No, no, dear sister, that was not an attack. I was merely doing my duty as a sister by informing you of the truth. I am only trying to keep you from being led astray by her lies."

"Ah, forgive me," Victorie could not keep the sarcasm from her voice. "How could I ever have mistaken your saintly advice for jealous gossip?"

"You are forgiven," replied her sister in an overbearing tone. "As I have said before, I would never hold a grudge."

~*~

At the gala, Debienne and Poligny had officially announced their successors as none other than the Messieurs Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin. Now both Richard and Moncharmin were respectable men, in their own ways. Richard was a former composer, a fellow artist, who relished in the Opera's exclusive world. Moncharmin had all plans of being a sleeping partner, but in his own defense, he handled finances much better that his co-manager.

The two men were faced with a daunting task: hundreds of faces where paraded in front of them, and they were expected to remember each person's name and duty within the Opera House.

There was Giry, the ballet instructor, whose kind smile and reassuring eyes shone with faith in the managers. Then came Gabriel, the chorus master, who looked like his namesake with his golden curls and porcelain blue eyes.

Next came Remy the secretary, followed by Mercier the acting manager, and Reyer the orchestra conductor and resident composer.

Then came the company members—the "faces of the Opera": La Carlotta and Carolus Fonta, the headliners; Edouarde and Castile, the French tenors; Martine and Elaine, the secondary sopranos; the Italian acrobats: Gaetan, Nichola, Natalia, Ilario, Ludovico, Bambina, Bibiana and Emanuele; Sorelli, the principle dancer, and the Spanish trio--Mercedes, Belisma and Lupe, who often led the chorus dances. These faces and hundreds more swirled around the new managers, like painted fixtures on a never-ending carousel.

After several hours of wining and dining (for these events last long into the night) Madame Giry bowed before the managers with a flourish, "If you will excuse me, My Good Messieurs, my little ballerinas need much practice."

With a commanding air, she twirled her hand over her head, signaling the corps de ballet to exit as well. The girls bowed prettily and offered many compliments before following their mistress back to the stage.

"Charming little women, aren't they?" Remy stood beside the managers, a glass of champagne in hand. "Isn't that Jammes the prettiest flower you ever laid eyes upon?"

"Yes, yes, quite charming," murmured Moncharmin, but his eyes were upon Carlotta, who was laughing very loudly at some story a guest was telling. Her white teeth flashed prettily; her dark curls bounced about her face. She was a sight to behold, this Spanish beauty.

Richard did not care for La Carlotta. He found her too loud, too demanding and too flashy. But La Sorelli--ah, that was a different matter altogether! Her green eyes , once called the finest eyes in Paris, seemed to take in the whole room; her speech to the former managers had been quite moving. Now she stood on the Comte de Chagny's arm, soaking up his every word and showering him with looks of adoration. Richard thought she was the most beautiful thing in the room.

So sat the three men, each thinking of different beauties, but all filled with the same thoughts.

~*~

"Ah, La Carlotta—a wonderful performance, as always," yet another theatre-goer took the diva's hand. It took everything she had not to wrinkle her nose in disgust. Why did everyone feel that they had to touch her? Did they not believe her to be flesh and blood?

"Thank you," Carlotta flashed a smile as the fan walked away.

Carolus Fonta appeared beside her, handing the diva a glass of champagne as he leaned forward to whisper, "Truly, you were terrific tonight."

"Not as terrific as Christine Daae," Carlotta muttered under her breath, flashing a false smile at another patron across the room. Even at her lowest moments, she could not resist the urge to flirt.

"Beginner's luck," Carolus shrugged.

Carlotta shot him a withering look, "I don't believe in luck."

"Then what do you believe?" Carolus asked playfully. He was in a good mood; nothing could shake him—not even Carlotta's caustic looks. He had sung well that night, the audience had risen to their feet at his last song, and the night was alive with music and champagne.

"I believe," Carlotta took a deep breath, her dark eyes looking around like a frightened rabbit, "I believe that Christine Daae will be the end of me."

"Don't be so dramatic," Carolus laughed. Then he noticed his partner's eyes truly shone with fear. His voice softened, "Carlotta, you are the Bella Diva of Paris. No one could replace you. Especially not some young chorus brat."

Carlotta gave a wry chuckle, "Ah, but Daae is not just any young chorus brat."

"How do you know?" Carolus looked at her. Carlotta gave another mysterious smile.

"Trust me," she looked out at the crowd once more, pasting another charming smile on her beautiful lips. "I know."

~*~

"Plie, coupee, pique, pique, and close to fifth position," Giry chanted each ballet step rhythmically, keeping tempo by tapping her cane on the hardwood floor.

"Why isn't Christine down here?" Whined Jammes. "Why doesn't she have to work?"

"Hush, Cecile," Giry called out. "Christine is not here because she fainted. Besides, after tonight, she will no longer be joining the chorus. Christine is about to become a principle singer. Now, pique turn. Annette, keep your knees turned out; your turns are sickly looking."

"And so now we'll have to bow down to Mademoiselle Daae," Jammes said sarcastically, rolling her eyes and looking to see which girls were agreeing with her. Giry shot her a withering look and Jammes was quiet for the rest of the evening.

Gabriel leaned against the doorframe, watching the late-night barre exercise with little interest. As chorus-master, he had to attend as many of the practices as he could, to see which ballerinas were improving and which ones needed to be moved to the back of the row. Giry taught the girls the disciplines and steps; Gabriel choreographed the dances for each operetta. It was a partnership that had been formed several years ago, when Gabriel had first come to work at the Opera Populaire. Although Giry was still young enough to teach, performing the choreography was becoming too much for her. She had lived at the Opera since the age of seven; she'd been a great ballerina during her time, but had never reached the fame of a prima donna. After marrying Jules, a simple mason-worker, and giving birth to Meg's older brother Alphonse at the age of twenty-four, Giry's career had ended. She was in perfect physical condition, but all those years of wear and tear had finally gotten into Giry's aching bones, causing an early form of arthritis. So Gabriel had been recruited and his choreography had been a great success.

Gabriel's blue eyes scanned the dancers. Everyone's contract would soon be up; then it would be time to decide who should go and who should stay. He tried not to think about what would happen to the girls who were let go. They were not rich, or even middle class. They would be forced into a world that they had not known since of the tender age of seven. That always spelled disaster.

Giry beat her cane on the floor rhythmically, "One, two, three—balancé, balancé—Annette, point! Cecile, if I see you sickle your ankle again, I shall cut off your feet!"

The ballet mistress turned to Gabriel with an exasperated sigh, "I fear they will all be let go. They lack the fire, the passion that keeps Sorelli on the stage."

"Sorelli stays on the stage because she is bedding the Comte de Chagny," Gabriel pointed out casually. He did not mean it as an insult, merely a fact.

Giry nodded, "That may very well be so, but you and I both know that she had to fight to get to where she is now."

"True," Gabriel admitted. Giry turned to the girls, with a shake of her head, "But these girls—"

"Are tired because it's past midnight," Gabriel interjected. Giry was known to be a bit harsh on the corps de ballet, even if her intentions were pure.

"In one week, each one of my girls will have to stand before these new managers and prove that they are worthy of another contract," Giry faced Gabriel with a sudden sense of determination. "The new managers do not know these girls; they could care less whether they go or stay. If they fail, they will be turned out in the streets. I will do everything within my power to prove that they are capable of performing at the Opera Populaire. Forgive me if I seem a little harsh. But the end will justify the means."

Suddenly, Giry stiffened, her brown eyes shot up to the rafters. She whispered huskily, so the ballet girls could not hear, "The Phantom is here."

"How do you know?" Gabriel was intrigued.

Giry's eyes never stopped roaming the ceiling, "I can sense him. I feel him when he passes over the rafters."

"I don't feel anything," the chorus-master remarked.

"You never were very perceptive," Giry smirked, her momentary fear passing. She returned her attention to her ballerinas. "Okay, mes petites cheries. You are dismissed. We start again tomorrow morning."

She caught Cecile as the other girls were exiting, "Little Jammes, I realize that you feel you are soon to be signed as a principle dancer; and I cannot help but agree. But if you continue to grow less attentive toward your own career and spend more time meddling in the lives of your company members, you will not last very long at the Opera Populaire. Am I understood?"

"Oui, Madame," Cecile Jammes answered meekly, although her dark eyes flashed with resentment. A swift swat of Giry's cane sent the ballerina scurrying down the hall.

Gabriel chuckled, "Little Jammes giving you trouble again?"

"She never seems to stop," Giry smiled wryly in spite of herself. She straightened her dress, "Now, if you'll excuse me, Monsieur, I have an appointment with the Opera Ghost."

"The Opera Ghost?" Gabriel looked the ballet mistress as if she were crazy. "Why on earth do you have a meeting with the Opera Ghost?"

Giry produced a letter bearing the seal of Red Death, "He wishes to speak with me. I am to meet him in Box Five."

"Perhaps I should go with you," Gabriel stepped forward bravely. "To make sure you are all right."

Giry waved the thought away with a careless air, "Please, Gabriel. If he really is a Ghost, what harm can he do me?"

"I don't know, and I certainly do not wish to find out," Gabriel shook his head. "Let me come with you, Madame Giry."

"Certainly not," Giry replied, pulling away from him protective grasp. "I will be fine."

"Scusarmi," came a soft voice from the door way. It was Bambina, one of the Italian acrobats. She stepped forward timidly, "I was wondering if, perhaps, you have heard anything about Signor Buquet's death. I only overheard someone mention it at dinner. I could not help it…they said that you were there."

"Ah, yes, well, we were," Gabriel seemed unsure of how to answer the doe-eyed maid. "I'm not quite sure you want to hear the gory details—"

"I was almost imprisoned for murdering a man," Bambina cut him off. "Death does not frighten me."

"Y-you went to prison for murder?" Gabriel was taken aback. Bambina was a small, frail, timid creature, seemingly incapable of murder.

"Almost," she corrected him. "But the judge dropped the charges. Like you, Signor Chorus-Master, he did not believe I could do such a thing. But that is another story. Please, tell me what happened to Joseph Buquet."

Gabriel turned to Giry, as if to make sure that he wasn't the only one hearing such tales. But there was one small problem. Madame Giry was no longer there.

~*~

Carlotta sat in the dark before her mirror. She could still hear the thunderous applause ringing in her ears.

Applause meant for Christine Daae.

Never had such a sound hurt so much. Even when the audience cheered Sorelli on, Carlotta had endured it with some sense of grace. Sorelli was a remarkable dancer, Carlotta could admit. But she did not have Carlotta's voice. But this Daae—the voice of an angel! The audience's shouts of encore had been like a dagger into Carlotta's heart. She buried her head in her hands and cried as though her heart would break.

**_*Author's Note: This, my friends, is where our tale truly begins...if you haven't discovered by now, this story has very little to do with Christine or Erik or Raoul. If you are looking for the usual three-ring love circus involving this canon, please feel free to stop reading...because this is not that story. For Phantom fans, Erik will have a greater role in the upcoming chapters, but as for our little lovebirds...well, they shall remain minor characters. Just thought I'd let you know, lest I disappoint some one.*_**


	11. Conversation in the Chapel

**Conversation in the Chapel**

**_*Author's Note: Sorry to take so long between posts...I'm afraid this story in the unofficial red-headed stepchild of my stories. It always seems to get the least amount of attention whenever I sit down to write. So be prepared for long spells of non-productivity._**

**_And for future reference: YES, I do know that Paris actually has the Opera Garnier, not the Opera Populaire. I have been to Paris and seen it with my own eyes. When originally writing this, I decided to try to reconcile the Webber and Leroux versions, so I chose Webber's Opera Populaire. I am glad that several of you were diligent enough phans to point this out, but really, I do know the difference. : ) *_**

La Sorelli allowed herself to sleep in the next morning. The gala—along with the sudden death of Joseph Buquet and the rumored Phantom-sighting—had been enough to rattle her nerves thoroughly. So, in the interest of self-preservation, Sorelli had taken the day off. Besides, it would be another eight weeks before a new show opened; it would not hurt for the ballerine to spend a day in bed.

The dancer awoke to survey the room with slightly critical eyes. It was a nice little flat, decorated in the latest style—but not quite as nice as Carlotta's, Sorelli told herself. In truth, she had never seen the singer's abode, but Sorelli's mental image of her house depicted a place decked out to the finest extent.

Sorelli took a moment to look at all the things within the room—the dressing gowns, the mirrors, furs, feathers, jewels, perfumes, silks and chocolates. There wasn't a single thing in there that had not been given to her by one lover or another. Why, even this flat was being paid for by Phillippe!

In all honesty, that was the only reason Sorelli had begun her affair with the dashing Comte. As patron of the Opera Populaire, Phillippe had a certain power over her fate. As long as he kept beating a path to her door, La Sorelli was safe from the proverbial axe. Her relationship with the Comte also gave her the freedom to do and say as she pleased, without fear of retribution.

But all that hung by a single, delicate thread—Phillippe's infatuation for La Sorelli. Right now, he was still enamored by the little dancer; he would do anything for her. But Sorelli was twenty-three years old and no stranger to the fickle ways of noblemen. Men like Phillippe de Chagny did not stay with one woman for very long. They also did not continue to spend money on the ones they no longer solicited.

Sorelli knew that Phillippe would never marry her. He also would not remain enamored for much longer. Then she would have to find a new lover, a new man to keep her in the style and comfort that she was so accustomed to.

The dancer gave a heavy sigh at this particular thought. Really, she would hate to lose the Comte. So far, he had been the best—high rank, noble birth and the funds to keep her happily installed, as well as the patron of the Opera Populaire, no less. Deep down, La Sorelli realized that she had reached the pinnacle of her success as a mistress; everything would be downhill from there.

Determined to shake these dismal thoughts from her pretty little head, La Sorelli left her bed and called for Regine to help her dress. A quick trip to the boutique would cure her current ills.

As usual, whenever La Sorelli stepped onto the street, she was greeted with warm smiles and hats tipped in cordial recognition. Today young men smiled as she moved gracefully through the crowd, her body moving as only a dancer's can across the troubled waters of the busy street. These people knew her, idolized her, devoured her every move and constantly begged for more.

The night before, La Sorelli had given an eloquent farewell speech to the Opera's previous owners Debienne and Poligny. It was the first time many of the public had heard her speak—after all, dancing did not require vocals, and few were actually on close enough terms to speak with her. Her voice was deep, but soft, rising and falling with a cadence that was enchanting. Last night's speech flaunted Sorelli's intellectual side and showcased her oratory talents. If the public adored her before, they were madly in love with her now.

"La Sorelli! Le Bijou de Paris!" Came a cry from across the street. The dancer turned to give a small wave to the amorous fan. Another total stranger who somehow felt he knew her, simply because he had seen her dance across the stage in a painted face and tulle skirt. Still, it was gratifying to know that in some way, she had already left her mark upon the hearts of Paris. After all, she was _Elle Qui Tient Le Couer de Paris dans Ses Mains_.

~*~

When Madame Giry reappeared that morning for barre exercises, she seemed oddly lighthearted. Humming softly, she cleaned the floors and prepared the room for class.

Gabriel, however, was in an awful humor, "Do you realize how worried I was last night?"

"What about last night?" Giry continued sweeping.

"Your meeting with the Opera Ghost," Gabriel reminded her. "I told you that I wanted to come with you and you deliberately ran off without me."

A smile tugged at the corner of Giry's mouth. She shrugged, "I told you that I would be fine, and I was. He is a Ghost, not a criminal."

"He could have been a criminal in his previous life, for all we know," Gabriel interjected.

"He's not." Giry replied calmly.

"How do you know?"

"I just do, Gabriel. Now, move. I can't sweep the floor with you standing there."

Gabriel gave an exasperated sigh, but he did as he was told. He really wasn't worried about the Ghost--after all, what could a Ghost do?--but rather the people Giry might meet on her way to see the Ghost. Giry was completely unaware that a woman of her petite build and pretty looks should not roam the dark halls of the Opera House alone after midnight. The Opera was inhabited by all sorts of unsavory characters.

The corps de ballet rushed in with shrieks of delight and incessant chatter that always accompanies teenage girls. They each put on their dainty pink ballet shoes and straightened their long, gauzy skirts. Giry put the broom away and picked up her cane, gently urging the girls to hurry along. "Come on, my pigeons. We've got a lot to do and very little time in which to get it done."

"Has anyone seen Christine?" asked Meg, her black eyes searching the crowd.

"She is still ill," Giry answered. Her stern face kept the girls from asking any further questions. They knew better than to tempt Giry's wrath.

~*~

Bambina saw the Opera Ghost that very morning. She was going over her stunts for her next performance; her partner Ubarto was tossing her high into the air. While she was airborne, the acrobat happened to turn her gaze to the rafters. She gave such a screech of terror that poor Ubarto jumped back, dropping her rather than catching the girl. She landed with a dull thud.

"Forgive me!" Ubarto regained his wits and rushed to help her. The other performers crowded around her at once, all firing questions.

"Bambina, what happened?"

"Why did you scream?"

"Shame, Ubarto! Why did you drop her?"

"Bambina, why so pale?"

Ubarto helped her sit up. Bambina's lips quivered with fear, "É il Fantasma di Opera! He was here, in the rafters! I saw him!"

The Italians cried out; their eyes all shot heavenward. There was nothing but shadows left.

"He has vanished," whispered Bibiana in a low voice, so the Ghost could not hear.

"That is what Ghosts do," agreed Emanuele solemnly, her hazel eyes still searching the ceiling.

"Perhaps he just wanted to watch us practice," suggested Ilario, the youngest acrobat.

"After all, we are the stars of the show," spoke Ludovico, the unofficial leader of the rag-tag acrobats. The Italians murmured in agreement.

This is the simplest truth about the Opera: no matter what part they played, each company member believed themselves to be the center of attention. Sometimes it was true, sometimes it was not.

"I am sure he has missed seeing us," added Ilario.

"Come," Ludovico helped the shaken Bambina to her feet. "Let's give the Ghost a show to remember."

And so the acrobats--Nichola and his wife, Natalia, Emanuele and her partner Gaetan, Ludovico and his partner, Bibiana, and Little Ilario—took the stage once more. Ubarto suggested that he and Bambina sit out for awhile, to which Bambina readily agreed. So they sat and watched their troupe members flip, toss, and amaze with feats of daring and dexterity.

Bambina could not stop looking up at the rafters, wondering if the Phantom would appear again. So few had seen him; it was widely believed that the only time someone saw the Opera Ghost was right before he or she died.

Isn't that what happened to Joseph Buquet? Why, he had seen the Ghost less than two months ago, and now he lay dead, killed by some mysterious force! Bambina shivered and crossed herself against such evil. If the Ghost had come to take her soul, it would have to wait. She had many sins that needed to be forgiven.

~*~

Carlotta carelessly plucked away at the rose, letting the petals fall unceremoniously at her feet. She still had not found a way to get rid of that Daae brat.

Suddenly, her door flew open and Edouarde and Castile, the French tenors, burst into her room with their usual gaiety. "Ah, Bella Diva! You have returned to us!"

"Of course I have," Carlotta flashed a false smile. "And in case you haven't noticed, I returned two weeks ago. What fine friends you are!"

"Perhaps we have been too caught up in the whirlwind of Daae's success." Edouarde's eyes gleamed devilishly. Castile, who was by far the better mannered of the two, elbowed his friend roughly.

"Don't speak of such things, you swine! La Carlotta has nothing to fear from that little mouse that calls herself a soprano!"

"Ah, yes, except that mouse has something that La Carlotta cannot make up for," Carlotta took a seat, a frown on her lovely features. "Youth."

"Bah!" Edouarde made a face. "Youth is over rated."

"You can say that," Carlotta rolled her eyes. "You're still young."

"And so are you," Castile reminded her. "You can go on singing for decades, Bella Diva. This Daae, she is just a flash in the pan. The world will have forgotten her tomorrow."

Castile proved to be wrong. The world did not forget Christine Daae; in fact, it seemed to be just the opposite. Everywhere one went, they could hear the name of Paris' newest soprano on someone's lips.

~*~

"Oh, that Carlotta is a wreck," Edouarde said, propping his feet on the edge of Sorelli's settee.

"Really?" Sorelli smirked, applying a spritz of perfume to her neck. She knew that Edouarde and Castile were the most two-faced members of the company—after they had finished chatting with her, they would scurry to La Carlotta's room, eager to relate their entire conversation.

"Christine Daae has become quite a thorn in our Bella Diva's side," Castile agreed.

"What else is new?" Sorelli shrugged. Quite honestly, she was sick of talking about the new songbird. Daae this; Daae that. It was enough to drive a girl insane!

"I hear that Daae has been taking lessons from a teacher." Edouarde leaned forward conspiratorially.

Sorelli was unimpressed, "That is what singers usually do, Edouarde. Perhaps if you knew that, then you would be taking Carolus' place in the next production."

Edouarde gave a wry chuckle at the barb; he was used to Sorelli's stinging comments. Whenever she was annoyed, she lost all sense of tact—not that she had that much politeness to begin with.

"Yes, but this is a very special teacher," his tone held a certain allure.

Sorelli sat up, suddenly interested. She turned to face him.

"What do you mean?"

"No one has ever seen him," Edouarde gave a sly grin. "They say he is only a voice—he claims to be an angel!"

"Are you sure Daae isn't just mad?" Sorelli asked.

"Perhaps she is," Edouarde sat back. Another unreadable smile came across his handsome features, "Of course, that is what they said about Joan of Arc."

"I wouldn't go so far as to compare a chorus girl to France's savior," Sorelli commented in a dry tone. Still, she wanted to know more, "So, this…angel. Has anyone else heard him?"

"Little Giry—Meg, I think is her name—claims to have heard him once," Castile answered.

"Meg's a crackpot," Sorelli shrugged. "It's a shame to see how imbecilic she turned out, with such a good mother."

"Yes, Giry certainly didn't pass on her qualities to any of her children," Castile admitted with a sad shake of his head.

"Such a shame," Edouarde agreed with gravity.

As if struck by a sudden thought, Sorelli jumped to her feet. She hurried to door, peering into the hall at the grand clock that rested against the wall. She turned around, making a sweeping motion with her hands, "Shoo. My Comte shall be coming soon; I can't very well have you two men sitting in here when he arrives."

"Oh, give him a kiss for us," Edouarde grinned evilly. Sorelli swatted him playfully on the rump as he exited. Castile gave a slight nod and hurried out as well.

Sorelli watched the two men leave, an amused smile on her doll-like features. Edouarde and Castile might be gossiping, backbiting little idiots, but they were her only friends. They were part of the theatre world; they understood the pressures of being a performer in the grandest House in Paris. They had laughed with her, cried with her; onstage they lived and died with her. And at the end of the day, they were the only men who hadn't tried to take advantage of her, and the only two friends who had not abandoned her.

~*~

"I am your angel," a haunting—yet somehow beautiful—voice stirred the silence of the chapel.

"That I highly doubt," Giry rolled her eyes, crossing her arms.

There came a light chuckle, "I thought you were Christine."

"No you didn't," Giry said simply. She sat down with little ceremony, "You just like teasing me."

"I do," admitted the voice.

"Come out here, so I can see you."

A figure appeared in from the shadows, dressed from head to toe in black, except for a stark-white mask.

"Looking quite dramatic today, aren't we?" Giry commented dryly.

"It's for those delightful little ballerines of yours," the figure replied. He took a seat—but not too close to Giry. Rumor had it that he smelled like death—personally, he didn't know what death smelled like, although he had been the cause of it many times. But just in case, he didn't want get too close to Giry's delicate feminine senses. That was the one thing his wretched mother had taught him—women were sensitive, and to be treated as fragile bits of glass. They also couldn't be trusted.

"Erik," Giry took a deep breath. "I wanted to thank you for taking Daae as a student."

"My lessons have done wonders," Erik said, although there wasn't a prideful note in his confession. "I must admit, I surprised myself. I didn't know I was a miracle worker."

"Nor did I," Giry admitted.

"There's something else."

"What?"

"You're not telling me something, Giry."

There was a thoughtful pause. Giry was at a loss at how to best approach the subject. Erik understood this and sat by quietly, allowing the ballet mistress to collect her thoughts.

"It's just that," Giry took another deep breath. "Your…appearances have been occurring a little too frequently."

Giry felt her companion's anger rise, but he did not speak, so she continued. "Everyone had been talking—seeing things, hearing things. It's just too much."

"So I am no longer allowed to walk about the halls of my Opera House?" Erik demanded in a harsh tone. He leaned forward, his yellow eyes burning with intensity, "I built this place—I created it! It is mine, mine alone! You are only here because I allow you to be. I—"

"_You_ are only here because_ I_ allow you to be," Giry's voice was strong and assertive. There was a moment of tense silence. Each knew the other was right. Giry would never reveal the truth about the Opera Ghost, because Erik could very easily kill her or her beloved Meg. Erik would never kill Giry because she was vital to his living arrangements at the Opera Populaire. Another stalemate.

Erik gave an aggravated sigh; Giry looked away. Several minutes passed.

Finally, the ballet mistress stood up, gathering her skirts with a sense of finality, "You're letting yourself be seen too much. If I didn't know you any better, I would assume your skills are slipping. Keep out of sight; stop scaring my girls. Frightened girls make bad dancers. I will send Christine this evening."

Erik nodded, not even bothering to look up at Giry. He was still angry over her latest edict.

The ballet mistress took a hesitant step towards him, but then apparently decided against it. She left the chapel without another word, leaving Erik with his thoughts.

She was right. Damnit, she was always right. She knew as well as he did that Erik was allowing himself to be spotted—he prided himself on being able to completely disappear in a room full of light. For the past ten years or so, he had successfully traveled the hallowed halls of his creation without the slightest mishap. So why, suddenly, had he decided to let anyone and everyone see him?

Erik didn't know the answer. If he did, he was too scared to admit it. Perhaps he just wanted people to realize that he was merely a man—a fragile corpse of flesh and blood, not an evil demon of insurmountable powers. Perhaps he was just bored. Either way, Giry was right—if he wanted to continue living in peace, then he must disappear once more.

But something had stirred within his misshapen soul. Erik no longer wished to spend his life alone—in peace or otherwise.


	12. A Brief Digression

**A Brief Digression**

I think back to that dark time—the years spent under the Phantom's spell. I still have the newspaper clippings, the ones my mother gave me. Sometimes I take them out, to read the headlines aloud:

"Daae Disappeared!"

"De Chagny-Daae Mystery Still Unsolved"

"Opera House Mourns Loss of Patron Phillippe de Chagny"

"The Jewel of Paris Meets an Untimely Demise"

"Mme de Rossier Announces Plans to Refurbish Opera House"

"Paris Bids Adieu to its Bella Diva"

"Mlle. Margaret Giry to Wed the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac"

"Paris' Newest Diva: La Cecile"

"Tragedy Befalls Opera Populaire"

There is also an obituary for Madame Jules Giry, along with a clipping from the _Epoque_, which simply states "Erik is dead."

Oh, those words. Typed in bold and placed in cold, orderly lines. They do not convey the emotions that followed each incident, the terror or the pain, the tears or the laughter, the nights spent screaming into a pillow because the weight of the world seemed to crush you with its unending agony.

That is why Leroux has failed. He was not there. He did not understand.

No one understands. No one but those who lived it. There was a time when that was a comforting feeling, when there were a few proud survivors left. We always stood beside each other, head held high with a certain sense of pride. We had lived through hell. We had lived to tell the tale.

But now it is a lonely feeling. I am the only one left—no one can understand why I cry in my sleep, or why every time I enter the foyer of the Opera Populaire, my blood freezes and my limbs become wax.

But you, my friends, shall soon understand. And then, I will not be alone.


End file.
